Mugged!
Living in Nairobi, Kenya can at times be a nerving experience. On every turn, every side street, someone waits, quietly observing, waiting for the opportune moment to relieve you of your possessions. A seemingly innocent woman asks for directions only to lead you into a trap, an ambulance chaser scours the streets, making a living out of misfortunes. The odds are heavily against you especially, if your business extends further than the sun lights your way. You are likely to have your neck wringed in a mugging style popularly referred to as ‘ngeta’. I once had a ringside seat.
From a weekend outing in March 2002, I got back to Nairobi at 8 pm, Sunday evening. The town was bustling with activity. As I was crossing over Tom Mboya Street, a young decently dressed boy of no more that ten suddenly walked up to me. Seeming confused, I asked him where he was going. He told me his mother was making a call at the telephone booth nearby but he wasn’t sure where. I was. There is only one line of telephone booths around and that’s outside the Kenya National Archives. I grab his hand and walk him towards the booths. I could understand his fear, the area is dimly lit. I picked out three people at the booths, one a lady. I pointed towards her and the kid nodded thankfully. He didn't let go off my hand so I walked him straight up to the booth. The lady was talking excitedly on the phone. She hadn't even noticed her child was missing! I felt overcome by the need to give her a few tips on child welfare.
Whoever grabbed me from behind must have been in his spare time lifting cement bags off trucks. To complement the grip, he had tied sharp edged piece of timber on his wrist, and that now squeezed my neck sending tears jerking out of my eyes instantly. I went limp as the other caller quickly abandoned his communication business and frisked me, relieving me of my recently acquired Nokia 3310, watch and wallet. On a better day, I would have commended his speed and recommended him to the passenger terminals at the airport. The security there takes hours to go through baggage. He had one of my sneakers halfway out when the kid, who was now on the watch whistled. The arm swiftly unwrapped from my neck. I couldn’t remember what happened next.
When I came to, I was lying on the street, a spectacle for passers by. My throat hurt. My head weighed a ton. I pushed my foot back into the shoe, picked up my keys and diary then slowly staggered towards the bus stop. If I ever needed my voice, it was then because I would have to do a lot of explaining to the bus conductor. Thankfully, he understood. He sees my type every day. It took me a week to get my voice back and a whole three months replace my phone. I quit having a watch; it was the third I had lost. The various places I decided to be stuffing my money meant I no longer needed the use of a wallet. It took me a whole year though to gather enough courage to venture out at night.
From a weekend outing in March 2002, I got back to Nairobi at 8 pm, Sunday evening. The town was bustling with activity. As I was crossing over Tom Mboya Street, a young decently dressed boy of no more that ten suddenly walked up to me. Seeming confused, I asked him where he was going. He told me his mother was making a call at the telephone booth nearby but he wasn’t sure where. I was. There is only one line of telephone booths around and that’s outside the Kenya National Archives. I grab his hand and walk him towards the booths. I could understand his fear, the area is dimly lit. I picked out three people at the booths, one a lady. I pointed towards her and the kid nodded thankfully. He didn't let go off my hand so I walked him straight up to the booth. The lady was talking excitedly on the phone. She hadn't even noticed her child was missing! I felt overcome by the need to give her a few tips on child welfare.
Whoever grabbed me from behind must have been in his spare time lifting cement bags off trucks. To complement the grip, he had tied sharp edged piece of timber on his wrist, and that now squeezed my neck sending tears jerking out of my eyes instantly. I went limp as the other caller quickly abandoned his communication business and frisked me, relieving me of my recently acquired Nokia 3310, watch and wallet. On a better day, I would have commended his speed and recommended him to the passenger terminals at the airport. The security there takes hours to go through baggage. He had one of my sneakers halfway out when the kid, who was now on the watch whistled. The arm swiftly unwrapped from my neck. I couldn’t remember what happened next.
When I came to, I was lying on the street, a spectacle for passers by. My throat hurt. My head weighed a ton. I pushed my foot back into the shoe, picked up my keys and diary then slowly staggered towards the bus stop. If I ever needed my voice, it was then because I would have to do a lot of explaining to the bus conductor. Thankfully, he understood. He sees my type every day. It took me a week to get my voice back and a whole three months replace my phone. I quit having a watch; it was the third I had lost. The various places I decided to be stuffing my money meant I no longer needed the use of a wallet. It took me a whole year though to gather enough courage to venture out at night.
4 comments:
phentermine nice :)
Sorry about that. I was mugged near the Tom Mboya Steers too, though i was held up at gunpoint by a group of jamaas. Lost some cash and my cell.
Soon after I recovered from that I was carjacked in Buru Phase 5. Talk about a major statistic. Scared the hell out of me. Took me close to a year to walk the streets at night again.
Then they say security has improved!
they say, but you still cant walk around freely.
they say, but you still cant walk around freely.
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